


Experiments in Mesmer's Method: Hannibal Lecter, MD, PsyD

by pensee, TonyMacauley (Whoharps)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Come Marking, Daddy Kink, Hypnotism, M/M, Okay flexible magical realism hypnotism, Oral Sex, Sex while hypnotized, Will doesn't have encephalitis, dubcon, hannibal is a terrible therapist, noncon, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whoharps/pseuds/TonyMacauley
Summary: Hannibal wouldn’t call the emotion building in his chest excitement, per se; more of a curiosity about how Will would react to a proposed change in his current treatment plan.Although Will had been attending pseudo-therapy sessions with him for the past few months, he tended to leave appointments more flustered and frustrated than he arrived (not for lack of Hannibal attempting to calm him, of course not, that would be unprofessional). He was becoming dissatisfied with his care, despite claiming (begrudging as his claims were) that he enjoyed Hannibal’s company.-S1 AU where Will doesn't have encephalitis. Hannibal tries a few unconventional tricks of the trade to take advantage of Will's trusting nature. They both enjoy it more than they should.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 123
Collections: Just Fuck Me Up 2020





	Experiments in Mesmer's Method: Hannibal Lecter, MD, PsyD

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the sake of Occam's Razor, we're supposing that Will doesn't have encephalitis in this fic, although Hannibal and work stress both help him along in terms of experiencing lost time. 
> 
> Please do enjoy, but also mind the tags. There is going to be eventual full consent here, but Hannibal does do things to Will without his explicit consent, so hence the warnings. 
> 
> Read safely, friends. <3
> 
> -pensee

Hannibal wouldn’t call the emotion building in his chest excitement, per se; more of a curiosity about how Will would react to a proposed change in his current treatment plan. 

Although Will had been attending pseudo-therapy sessions with him for the past few months, he tended to leave appointments more flustered and frustrated than he arrived (not for lack of Hannibal attempting to calm him, of course not, that would be unprofessional). He was becoming dissatisfied with his care, despite claiming (begrudging as his claims were) that he enjoyed Hannibal’s company. 

“Before you start—No, today was _not_ a good day,” Will says, tossing his jacket onto the divan as he always does, careless and all too comfortable in Hannibal’s domain. 

Retrieving the jacket from its haphazard resting place, Hannibal folds it and deposits it onto the corner of his desk instead, pretending to consider what to say next as if he hasn’t already been over this very scenario and a half-dozen others before Will even walked through the door. 

“Uncle Jack giving you trouble?” Hannibal asks, showing his teeth in some semblance of a smile as Will flops into his desk chair, not even bothering with the pretense of sitting across from him as usual. 

Will laughs, dry and stunted. 

“No, no. For once, it was something else. _Someone_ else. I got a call from one of the FBI’s finance officers today. Spent three hours arguing with them about my _consultation fee_.” He huffs in irritation, hand running down his face.

“Jack hasn’t got as much clout as he used to. I haven’t caught the last two we’ve been after—not to mention the crapshoot this current case is—and the higher-ups are already sniffing around for an excuse to throw me back into the classroom.”

Hannibal rounds the desk, perches on the corner of it closest to Will, eyes crinkling at the corners as Will scrambles to regain his own personal space, without trying to make it look as if he’s fleeing. 

“You’ve said it yourself—Being in the field isn’t good for your mental health. You enjoy doing the right thing, but not at the cost of your own sanity. Was today so bad because you felt a lack of justification in arguing with this finance officer who called you?”

Will scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Everyone has a right to a living wage, Doctor Lecter. I have responsibilities at home—My vet bills can be astronomical.”

“An honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work,” Hannibal says. “Did you feel guilty for defending your worth when you couldn’t catch the last two that Jack sent you after?” 

Will’s left eye twitches. 

“I can’t feel guilty for someone else’s wrongdoings,” he says, though they both know that this is a lie. There is a girl languishing in a treatment facility a few miles from this very spot that would say otherwise. “I found it...funny. The first day Jack asked me to consult on the Minnesota Shrike case, he led in by saying ‘the last two we had, you caught’. 

“I must be losing my touch.”

Hannibal smiles. “Even the most high-functioning among us need a break every now and again, Will. There’s no shame in admitting that.”

He gestures to the metronome atop the harpsichord. 

“I want to give you another method of relaxation. Something you can use either with me or in your own home. You have one at home, on the bookshelf beneath your front window.”

Will’s mouth flattens. 

“Yours is lighted—We’ve tried this before, it doesn’t work. I’d rather just sit here and talk with you for an hour—or not talk at all—than sit in front of a glowing metronome waiting for something to happen.”

He seems embarrassed, either at admitting he’d rather let this be a social call or that light therapy had only served to irritate him further. Whatever the truth of the matter, Hannibal has to be careful what he proposes next. 

“Hypnosis in the traditional sense works when the person being hypnotized believes the process is valid. Doctor Franz Mesmer made a fortune convincing the 18th century European elite that he was curing them of the vapors, when in fact—”

It’s Will’s turn to smile. “When in fact, he was using magnets and a little showmanship to fool them all into thinking he was a medical practitioner instead of a charlatan. I’ve heard the story. I don’t think you can convince me that light therapy or hypnotism or whatever you wanna call it is gonna work for me.” 

“I’m not an advocate of traditional hypnotism for non-susceptible patients,” Hannibal says, rising and moving to one of the locked cabinets on the far side of the room. “But what I want you to try is less than traditional.” 

“I’m intrigued,” Will says, though he shifts in Hannibal’s chair. It may be anticipation, nervousness, or any combination of the two. Hannibal marvels at the trust Will places in him, that he—private and terse in his daily life—would bend to a partial suggestion, not even a direct order. 

_Poor thing, so eager for relief._

If he’d been a _better_ man—a _lesser_ man, in fact—Hannibal would’ve felt the slightest twinge of guilt at what he’s about to do next. To his own advantage, of course, he is not a _better_ man. 

“I’m not paying for any of this,” Will says, as Hannibal selects the items he needs from the cabinet. Hannibal produces a pair of black nitrile gloves and, with a glance at Will, who is fidgeting slightly, he pulls them on one at a time with an audible snap. 

He smiles to himself as he catches sight of Will putting his hands on his lap, almost shame-faced. He had seen that look of embarrassed arousal at crime scenes, and was relishing in it now. 

Closing the cabinet, he produces a fresh syringe and vial from the small refrigerated unit on the middle shelf. From another drawer, he retrieves a rubber tourniquet about an inch wide. 

“You can’t prescribe me medication that the government won’t cover.”

“I trust you won’t tell the government, then,” Hannibal says, placing the supplies on his desk atop what Will thinks must be a cloth napkin. 

_Crazy bastard._

“You’re going to drug me into compliance,” Will says, snorting, though Hannibal doesn’t miss how his pupils dilate. 

“I’m going to ensure that you are open to hypnosis. This,” he says, holding up the vial with an almost flourish (he never could resist a bit of showmanship), “makes the suggestion harder to fight.”

“Your arm, please,” he says, voice firm, and Will looks up at him for a moment, eyes big like a mouse that’s been cornered by a cat, before something breaks in him and he lowers his eyes, scrambling to roll up his sleeve. He tenses his arm without being asked, and Hannibal ties the tourniquet around his arm, smiling to himself as Will’s throat bobs as he’s touched.

A quick swipe of an alcohol wipe, and he’s ready to be punctured. 

Hannibal draws away for a moment to uncap the syringe and pierce the soft top of the vial, drawing back the liquid. He taps the plastic, ensuring there are no bubbles left as he pushes the plunger forward the slightest bit, two droplets of the drug leaking from the tip. 

It is not lost on him how Will relaxes as the needle slides beneath his skin, into a vein, and he relishes the sigh the other man lets out as he removes the band. Another alcohol wipe, and then he has Will hold a small square of gauze to the tiny wound. Hannibal retrieves a bandaid from his desk drawer, and makes quick work of putting it in the place of the gauze.

Placing the little protective pad on Will’s arm feels half-paternal for a moment, though he pushes the thought away. Perhaps they would discuss Will’s issues with his father another time. 

“You should already be feeling the effects,” Hannibal says, noticing how Will sags further into his chair. 

“Are we gonna do this, or what?” Will says, and he still has a challenging glint in his eye.

 _Remember when this is over, boy_ , he thinks. _You asked for this._

“Very well,” Hannibal says. “Let’s begin.” 

~

Will fidgets in his seat. He eyes Hannibal, waiting for him to do… whatever it is he plans to do. His arm burns as he presses his hand to the crook of his elbow and bends his arm a few times to ease the slight ache where Hannibal had injected him.

Eyes locking to his, Hannibal smiles. “Are you comfortable, Will?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” says Hannibal, tone approving. He sets the metronome. The ticking of it permeates the room, and the bright flashes seem to stutter into Will’s mind like lightning. “Close your eyes. I want you to imagine yourself in a calm place. Somewhere you know well.”

Will does as requested, eyes fluttering shut. He can still see the light of the metronome through his eyelids. He allows his head to drift downwards and lets himself float out into his favorite stream. He is in the centre of the stream, forest on either side. He feels the breeze rippling through the water, the sun on his skin. He feels the weight of the fishing rod in his palms. As he casts out his line into the water, he feels the whir of the line as the momentum of his swing pulls it inexorably out into the waters of his mind…

Will hears Hannibal’s smooth voice filtering through the trees around him, and he blinks down at his hands. The hairs on the back of them shiver. He blinks again.

_…Go deeper…_

The water flows.

_Deeper…_

The birds sing.

_So calm…_

_You are so relaxed…_

_So much deeper…_

_Will, in a moment I am going to count down from ten…_

_As the numbers go down, you will find yourself falling deeper…_

_For each number you fall even farther than before…_

The water rises.

_Ten…_

Higher. It’s at his thighs now.

_Nine…_

It’s around his hips. He feels strangely calm.

_Eight…_

Tick tock. Tick tock…

_Seven…_

The water laps at his belly now. He feels good.

_Six…_

The fishing rod slips from his fingers and into the murky depths.

_Five…_

His arms float beside him, weightless.

_Four…_

It’s at his chest. He vaguely thinks that perhaps he should be concerned… But the water feels so nice…

_Three…_

Tick. Tock.

Tick.

**Tock.**

_Two…_

It’s at his chin. He tips his head back, taking in the darkening sky.

_One…_

The water brushes his lips.

**_Sleep._ **

He slips under.

~

Hannibal watches Will’s eyes roll back into his skull, his body slumping to the side as if weary of its own weight. He’d convinced Will to move to their usual chairs instead of the other man attempting to retain his claim over Hannibal’s desk chair, though now Hannibal kneels to reach beneath Will’s knees and place a supportive hand on the nape of his neck, much like cradling a child.

Will is helpless in his arms at the moment, both lighter and heavier than Hannibal thought he’d be. There is responsibility in being trusted so deeply with another life, with a fragile mind so close to its tipping point. Hannibal relishes the inherent control this grants him, and knows that there must be a delicate balance between indulgence and caution for Will to continue to allow him this privilege.

 _Allow_.

He smiles to himself at the word.

Setting Will down on the divan, he stifles a laugh at Will’s instinctive whimper as he pulls away. He’s utterly lost to the trance, eyes unmoving beneath their thin lids. There’s little to no chance Will would remember this, even if Hannibal hadn’t drugged him.

It would have been nice for Will to have been present for this, begging for it, even.

A little thorn in his side, a voice echoing through the halls of his memory palace: _Even if he were conscious, he would not beg._

The voice doesn’t sound particularly familiar, nor particularly adamant, and he rids himself of the thought, shedding his belt and coiling it, neat, onto the edge of his desk. Ever cautious, he snaps his fingers in front of Will’s face. When Will doesn’t stir, he slaps him with the flat of his palm. Head lolling, Will’s chin touches his left shoulder, though he doesn’t let out so much as an irritated snore. 

Righting his skull—light for the depths it contains—Hannibal swipes at the corner of Will’s mouth, his own lips twitching at the stringy bit of drool that pools on his finger. 

“Sweet boy,” he says, unbuttoning his trousers, the teeth of his zipper pulling apart, one by one. This entire situation is drifting towards decadence, gluttony perhaps, even for him, though he cannot resist, not when Will had the presence of mind to have the choice and chose to trust him instead. 

He is not hard when he takes himself out of his boxers, but a few languorous strokes later, his eyes focused on Will’s face, he feels himself beginning to stiffen. 

_What do you dream of?_

There are many things that linger in Will’s mind he would be curious to encounter. Murder and mayhem are familiar as lullabies, but what sort of gruesome detail could his friend’s thoughts contain? What sort of longing, for normality, for a lack of it, for peace? 

Will has told him that he walks across the flat fields surrounding his home, watching the interior lights wink in and out of existence through the fog. 

_Are you going to dream of this, now, instead of your little boat on the sea?_

He smiles to himself again, thinking of this strange, lovely boy that haunts his own thoughts in such an all-consuming manner. 

A drop of precome gathers on his tip, and he watches as it fattens and drips onto Will’s upturned face. Will’s orbicularis oculi flutters, then relaxes, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm, his mouth opening just a sliver. 

Hannibal’s original plan—to jerk himself to completion over Will’s defenseless countenance—suddenly pales in comparison to the possibility that winks into existence at the forefront of his mind. 

_You’d begrudge me for using you this way, but it doesn’t matter._

Stroking Will’s lower lip with his thumb, Hannibal manipulates Will’s mouth wider. Knowing that any blockage of the airway in this state will force Will back into consciousness is a peripheral concern. Though his explanation for his actions will be unbelievable at best, he knows he’ll be able to talk himself out of appearing guilty should Will awake. 

The angle is wrong for him to slide all the way down Will’s throat, but he’ll make do. 

His cock is blood-flushed and eager as it finds Will’s tongue, then bobs up against his palate, too thick to fit any further as Will mumbles in his trance. The movement presses his soft palate against Hannibal’s glans, and Hannibal chokes down a grunt, leaking precome down the back of Will’s throat. 

“Relax, this won’t hurt a bit,” Hannibal lies through dulcet tones, “You feel _so_ good right now, Will. You are just floating where you are, everything is wonderful… You are _so_ relaxed...” He smiles as Will doesn’t protest further, lips slackened as Hannibal grabs him by the hair and attempts to establish some sort of pacing as he slides himself in and out of the loose ring of Will’s mouth. 

_I’ll train you to open entirely for me, even when you’re like this_ , he promises himself, pulling out to jerk himself, almost frantic, as he sees and smells the beginnings of tears gathering at the corners of Will’s eyes. 

He’s breathing hard through his nose as he spills over Will’s throat and chest, catching his clothes in an untidy spray of white that, for all his silver-tongued conversational skill, he will be hard-pressed to explain away as anything else but semen. 

He hums, a soft sound, considering the man beneath him. 

“Will, when you awaken, you will be well rested and content. You will dismiss any outward signs of what has happened today. Everything will seem normal.”

He pauses, contemplative.

“In a moment, I will count to three and then I will snap my fingers. When I snap my fingers, you will open your eyes. You will still be in trance, but you will be able to respond to my words,” he murmurs soothingly.

“One.

“Two.

“Three,” he says, and snaps his fingers.

Will does as commanded, blue irises coming into view. There is a certain cloudy unawareness in them when Hannibal gazes into their depths. 

“Now, Will, I am about to tell you something very important. I want you to listen _very_ carefully,” Hannibal says. “Nod if you understand.”

Will nods, expression remaining blank.

“Very good,” Hannibal praises. “Will, from now on, when you greet me, you will greet me by saying ‘Hello, Daddy.’ You will be aware that you are saying this, but you will not be able to stop yourself. The words ‘Hello, Daddy’ will pop into your head and you won’t be able to stop them from leaving your lips. No matter how hard you try, you just won’t be able to stop yourself…”

Hannibal smirks, another thought springing to mind. 

“Whenever you say ‘Hello, Daddy,’ but you will also become aroused. You will not know why.” Hannibal meets Will’s empty gaze. “Say ‘Hello, Daddy,’ if you understand me.”

Will blinks. Then blinks again.

“Hello, Daddy.”

“Very good,” Hannibaly says, pleased to see the sudden flush of arousal in Will’s cheeks. He is tempted to plant more commands, but thinks better of it. It wouldn’t do for Will to catch on… 

He leans in close.

“Remember these events and my commands every time you sleep, dear boy,” he says, whispering into the pinkened, perfect shell of Will’s ear. “Remember what I did to you. The memories will float around you like a breeze, unsettling you… But you won’t... know... _why_...” He pauses, punctuating each word, making sure that it will burrow firmly into Will’s mind.

Removing his pocket square from his jacket, he wipes himself off and discards the sullied fabric atop Will’s face—another thing to sanitize at a later time. Will still breathes easily, even with the thin kerchief obscuring his mouth. 

Hannibal does up his pants and wrinkles his nose at the slight acrid smell of his own sweat, caught in the thick wool of his coat. In his enthusiasm, he had not thought to remove it. 

_There’s time yet for you to fix this_ , he thinks, glancing over at Will’s vulnerable form, splayed helplessly on the couch. 

_It’s only right to be a gentleman and see him home_. 

~

Will floats in darkness.

He lets his eyes flutter open. The creamy ceiling of his living room meets his gaze. He sighs and runs a hand over his face.

Rolling over, he plants his feet onto the chilly floor. He swallows roughly, throat dry and sore.

He swallows again, grunting in discomfort. He pulls himself up out of the bed and slumps his way into the kitchen, pulling a glass from the cupboard and filling it at the sink. Gulping it down, he mulls over the events of the previous evening. Hannibal had seemed… well. Like Hannibal. So nothing strange there, then. He had his session, he—

He must have driven home, yes. That’s what must have happened. 

There was unnerving slice of _nothing_ in his mind where the previous evening should have been—

No. He rejects those thoughts.

He must have driven home. Yes. Yes, that had to be it. He drove home as soon as his session was over.

He deposits the glass in the sink and proceeds to go about the motions of his morning routine of caring for his dogs. He scratches his stomach absently as he bends to fill the dog bowls. He pauses as he feels a slight flakiness on his stomach. His brow furrows, and he finishes feeding his dogs. As he straightens up, he tugs up his shirt and examines his stomach curiously. A slight crusting runs along his torso, and he picks at it curiously. A shiver of unease runs up and down his spine.

The moment passes, and he dismisses the feeling. He must be imagining things again. He probably just needed to use some lotion or something.

With a yawn, he meanders to the shower to wash away that night’s… surprisingly small amount of sweat. He wonders at that for a moment. Normally he was far sweatier. That was odd. Must’ve been whatever Hannibal had given him last night.

Dismissing the thoughts as he scrubs his hair, he mentally goes over his lectures for the day.

He gets out of the shower and towels himself off. Swiping the towel across the mirror he contemplates his reflection for a moment. He sighs, taking in the bags under his eyes and his unkempt stubble. He turns away abruptly in disgust. 

~

Later, when he’s gotten himself out the door and into his car for his long commute, his thoughts again turn to the previous night. Hannibal had seemed… He had seemed different somehow. And for the life of him, Will still couldn’t remember how he had gotten home the previous night.

That was… concerning. But he had been under a lot of stress lately—what with the cases Jack had been throwing him at like he was the unfortunate target at the end of a gun range. Like the target, his brain felt full of holes which were slowly being filled up with other people’s psyches. This latest one was puncturing more holes than ever. Each dead family ripping apart the paper thin veil of his mind like tearing through tissue paper.

But he rids himself of those thoughts. Everything was _fine._ He had driven home yesterday.

 _Yeah, and you can’t remember a moment of it_. 

Half-empty bottle of aspirin rattling away in his jacket pocket, he downs four at a stoplight and tries not to think about how much this feels like poor coping for something he doesn’t want to name. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find us both on Twitter. @tonymacauley and @penseeart


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